


As Close to Home as He Can Get

by paranoiapersonified



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cheating, I'm not sure how to tag this right, M/M, Obsession over the Unknown, Porn, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Unhealthy Relationships, basically an OC Wirt's stepfather, but it's not exactly good either, it's not incest, probably OOC Wirt, unhealthy manifestations of obsession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4289112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoiapersonified/pseuds/paranoiapersonified
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wirt's nostalgia for the Unknown manifests itself in strange ways.</p><p>In which Wirt is acting pretty terribly and for some reason his stepfather unwittingly goes along with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Close to Home as He Can Get

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa, I uh... Here’s some more filthy trash that demanded to be written at fuck-all in the morning, I guess? I honestly don’t know where this came from.
> 
> Wirt is 18 in this, so it’s not underage (although I think this has been happening since he was 17, so there is implied underage), but I mean, it’s obviously still dark and got some very messed up issues. I’m 97% sure that Greg’s father doesn’t have a name, so I just named him George. Sorry if there is some fandom-agreed name for him.
> 
> This is not non-con or even dub-con.

Wirt stares out into the calm forest and feels, not for the first time, at home here. He hadn’t been an outdoorsy person—he’d enjoyed campfires and s’mores as much as the next person, sure—but … he finds himself craving, _needing_ , this scenery, this stillness in the trees, these gentle sounds of life more and more since the Unknown.

Wirt has to close his eyes when George presses a second finger into him, mouth open with a silent cry at the burn and pleasure of being stretched. Wirt knows it doesn’t have to be George—knows it definitely shouldn’t be—but this is how it worked out and Wirt’s stepfather just … indulged him. It all feels … almost better with the guilt grounding him.

He feels terrible at the same time, in some section of himself. He is hurting literally everyone he loves—his mother, Greg, _Sara_ —but this … Wirt needs it too much. George is just so convenient, so desperate in his own right, that it all works out in some terribly twisted way.

Wirt accidentally claws his nails into the dirt when George finds his prostate, head turned to the side and mouth open as he gasps out a soft _right there_. George presses again, deliberately, and Wirt moans out in mixed agony. George has a hand on his back, pressing him into the grass as he works—for some reason they always did this out in the open, usually on the soft grass of a clearing or pressed up against a tree, and Wirt wouldn’t change that for the world. He opens his eyes again to see a blue jay in a bush, tilting its head curiously before preening itself below its wing. He needs all of this.

George is relentless once he finds Wirt’s prostate, dragging moan after moan from him. Wirt is almost certain that George has never been on the receiving end of something like this, never even considered fucking boys until Wirt. But he likes sound, likes to please Wirt until he can’t muffle his cries. Wirt was surprised at how attentive a lover—a _fucker_ , he corrects, there isn’t a considerable amount of love in this, at least not on Wirt’s end—George was the first time the older man forced three orgasms out of him before coming himself. Wirt lets himself think it’s pride, mostly, that George likes knowing he’s good at what he’s doing. Or maybe it was the uncertainty of this type of sex that led him to want to make sure he was doing it right. Not that Wirt himself knew anything about it either—his previous experiences had consisted entirely of a few fumbling kisses with Sara and one night where she had allowed him to makeout with her topless before all of this began. But George certainly does do a good job. Wirt’s hips are moving against the grass, his erection catching deliciously on the dirt and leaves and wet plants, in time with George’s movements.

Wirt does nothing to hide his moans. There is no one around, they always make sure of that. They aren’t at all where Wirt’s mother thinks they are, where they normally camp when she decides to make their weekend outings a family affair—a normal campsite with other campers and a bathroom with flushing toilets and nice lake that Wirt will take Greg swimming in so their parents can have some alone time. No, whenever Wirt and George go by themselves (father-son bonding time that Sylvia is ecstatic about, her two boys getting along _so_ well), they find a secluded stretch of unmanned forest, some private property about an hour and a half upstate that probably belongs to some rich person who barely touches a eighth of the land. They are alone here. They’ll set up two tents (of course they actually sleep separately) and bring some hot dogs to cook over the open fire or some soup they’ll heat up in a pot, but that’s usually as much camping as they’ll actually do over the weekend.

It’s mostly sex, really.

Wirt isn’t sure what George is working out of his system, if his mother is just less interested in sex these days since menopause found her, or if he’s always been this sex driven, but the older man can’t barely keep his hands to himself.

Once, not very long after this all started, he’d tried to suck Wirt off at home, when Sylvia had taken Greg to go see a movie or a play or something. Wirt had been mortified. They only fucked in the forest, in the trees, with dirt on his knees and caked beneath his fingernails and the smell of wild grass and flowers in his nose. Sex with George was only in the woods, where Wirt was closer, as close as he could get, would ever get, to the Unknown.

(That isn’t exactly true. The very closest Wirt has ever been to the Unknown since their return was when he and Greg had gone back to that river, back over the wall, just to explore it during the day time. Greg had been content to just play along the bank, practicing swimming but never getting too far out over the deep middle. Greg had watched him for a long time, sitting on the shore, shoes off and pants rolled up with his bare feet in the water, but eventually he had waded into the river, out past where his feet could touch the rocky bottom. He had lain back and just sank, eyes open and staring at the broken sunlight streaming through the water, holding his breath until his vision began to fade to nothing. There, as his lungs ached and burned and he fought hard to keep down the panic, he saw it. Just for one second, less than that even. There he had seen the woods of the Unknown as clearly as he did in his dreams. But it couldn’t last, his survival instincts kicked in and he swam back up, sputter and heaving as Greg proudly proclaimed _84 seconds!_ like he’d been counting how long Wirt had been holding his breath like some game. Wirt then obliged him by counting for him how long he could hold his breath underwater, playing along and acting impressed when Greg managed to stay under for 42 whole seconds. He never told Greg about his glimpse into the Unknown. But here in this strange forest, Wirt could say that this was a close second.)

Wirt cries out George’s name for the sake of the other man when he adds another finger. The name never actually finds Wirt’s tongue naturally, this is never about him, he’s really only a means—a solution to his problem. But George loves it, his free hand trailing up over his spine to card through Wirt’s hair and his own soft sigh falls from his lips. And Wirt doesn’t want George to know how little this really has to do with him, doesn’t want him to suspect any of what this is actually about, so he’ll try to toss him bones like that, things to make him happy. He definitely never says the name that teases at his lips curiously, to match the eyes, the bright eyes, he sees when he closes his sometimes when the ache for the Unknown is particularly bad.

He doesn’t have to fake enjoying it though. He’s getting close with how George is relentlessly massaging his prostate, the stretch of three fingers burning so good. He slides his knees beneath him so he can get a hand to his cock, but George stops him, flips him over roughly on to his back. He licks his hand (they have lube that they have to be careful about packing and hiding from Wirt’s mother—Wirt keeps it in his room hidden with his box of condoms, a few of them actually missing, so if Sylvia ever finds it, he can lie about it being for Sara—but spit is quicker and Wirt needs quicker so he doesn’t protest at all) and takes Wirt in hand. George isn’t extraordinarily skilled at hand jobs, but he is good, knows from experience what gets Wirt off the fastest. Wirt’s back arcs up off of the ground and he cries out sharp and high as George matches the already quick pace of his fingers inside of him. It takes less than a minute for Wirt to come all over his shirtless stomach, eyes open and head tilted back so he could stare out into the seemingly endless mass of trees.

George doesn’t stop his fingers inside of Wirt, even after his legs stop trembling, but instead focuses more on actually stretching him open, preparing him. Not that Wirt really needs it, they’ve had sex so much (it’s almost evening on Saturday) that he hasn’t had time to properly tighten up again. Even then, Wirt _likes_ rougher sex, enjoys the feel of being stretched open by George’s thick cock, but George himself prefers to lavish Wirt with preparation and a carefulness that would exacerbate Wirt if he didn’t get off so much because of it.

When George feels Wirt is ready—the burn of the stretch has been completely gone for minutes now and the attention almost overstimulating—he removes his fingers and grabs the lube from his jacket pocket. George is still dressed, his dick laying heavily out of his jeans, while Wirt’s clothes are piled up next to them, not quite strewn about, but not folded either. George applies a generous about of lube, sliding his pants down lower on his hips so they wouldn’t get messy, and pumps his fist over himself twice to spread it evenly. He groans as he does, eyes fluttering closed. Wirt can admit that George is attractive for an older man, edging close to 46, a feathering of gray at the temples of his dark brown hair, which is the same color as Greg’s and very close to his own. He is on the short side, but large, stocky, the type of person you’d expect to be outdoorsy, to be out hunting for birds or fishing. He has muscle in his arms, in his thighs and stomach, that is only slightly hidden by a healthy layer of fat. Wirt had sort of hated that about him when his mother first started dating again, resenting his good looks that his own father hadn’t quite had. But George’s attractiveness is only a side-effect, a unimportant bonus for Wirt in this now that he is more or less passive to.

George grabs Wirt’s thighs, right hand slick with lube that smears across the back of his knee as he presses them back and wide open, and Wirt takes them for him, holding them so George can lean over him, hand guiding himself against Wirt’s entrance. He pauses when the tip is pressed against Wirt, little resistance from the boy’s body, and looks down at where they touch.

Wirt rolls his hips experimentally, enjoying the feel George’s slick cock sliding against his entrance, pressing with a little more force as he moves. One time Wirt accidentally got George off on just this, just pressing George teasingly against his asshole but never actually going further. He’d been held up against a tree, George’s arms support his weight entirely, bark biting nastily— _perfectly_ —into his back, his eyes closed and imagining trees slightly different from the one behind him, an entire forest that was slightly different but eerily similar to the one around him, as he revelled in the coquettish feel of it when George had surprised him, his mouth suddenly on his neck biting a large mark against his collarbone. George had of course made it up to him (several times over over the course of that weekend), but Wirt still got a startling thrill, thinking about that power he held over George, about the way he’d made him come without even meaning to.

But today, now at least, Wirt wants the real thing, so he lets go of his legs and wraps them around George’s waist, pressing up at the same time. George gets the message, eyes locked now on Wirt’s face as he licks his lips, and thrusts in slowly.

Wirt turns his head as George sets a pace that is neither fast or slow to begin with, staring out again into the trees. He feels both simultaneously thrilled and disappointed, so close to home, but at the same time nowhere near it. Homesick, his mind tells him. He is feeling nostalgia for the Unknown.

George’s mouth makes its way to Wirt’s neck, one hand on Wirt’s hip, the other brushing over his chest, down his ribs that become very noticeable with the arch in his back. He is rolling his hips as he thrusts, looking for Wirt’s sweet spot again, and Wirt can’t help but melt once he’s found it, angled so he scrapes against it with every thrust. George’s pace grows rickety and frantic as Wirt moans, _mewls_ , at this pleasure, speeding up until he is basically pounding into Wirt. Wirr quickly grows hard again under the attention, and George notices, taking him in hand as he licks his way up to suck on Wirt’s earlobe and nip at his jaw.

It doesn’t take them long like this, and it never usually does. George comes first, hips pressed flushed and cock deep inside Wirt as he comes, moaning out the boy’s name into his shoulder. He takes a few moments, a few shaky, grunted breaths, breathing in the scent of Wirt’s sweat as the boy moans back, his own hands tangled in George’s hair, but his eyes now fixed up at the tree tops, watching squirrels gracefully leap from branch to branch above their heads. When George recovers, he moves again, still hard but softening, his hand working fast with a still slick hand and harsh grip that forces a shrill, long cry from Wirt. In seconds the boy’s orgasm is wracking through him, the second of this round, and the fifth of the day.

Bone deep exhaustion demands his attention as soon as the last of the tremors and fading moans have passed through him, and he feels his eyes begin to droop. A small patch of sunlight, not very warm in the early autumn air, but pleasant all the same, has found it’s way through the canopy to his face, and Wirt thinks that he could lie in this forest for a thousand years if it lets him.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I do write _normal, healthy_ pairings! I do! Only the Worst Kind has sort of put me in a mood, I guess, haaaaaaa. Just bury me alive. I’ll probably write some happy, healthy Wirt/Dipper with no issues at some point to make it up to the poor babes I keep fucking up. Maybe some Wirt/Sara, too, because I actually ship them.
> 
> I have no plans to continue this, but if I ever do have time, I might revisit it and expand on why Wirt is so obsessed with the Unknown. Also maybe on why George goes along with everything. Maybe how it all began? I dunno.


End file.
